


The Dive: Remastered

by playtherain (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Catstuck, F/F, Mafiastuck, everyone has cat/dog ears because I said so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2778098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/playtherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave is a musician that gets a job at a very shady bar/lounge called The Dive. Rose is a best-selling author unwillingly dragged into the fray, and soon becomes entangled in a world of crime, gangs, and an infuriatingly-attractive bartender.</p><p>A re-write of a very old (now deleted) work of the same name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue (Rose)

**Author's Note:**

> You asked me to bring it back, and here it is: the return of what once was my most popular fanfic here on the Archive, with a few minor changes - everyone has cat/dog ears. Everyone. Because I said so, that's why.
> 
> Beta read by Rie and Hakoga.

The bar is large, sprawling, and very, very illegal.

You sit in your corner booth, obscured (you hope) by shadow, and by the black hood you'd pulled over your head and ears. Anywhere else but The Dive, it'd be considered suspicious. You jam your hands into the pockets of your sweatshirt like you have something to hide, and pray that nobody talks to you.

The giant Act of Parliament clock on the far wall reads 9:47. Thirteen more minutes until Dave's shift ends, and you can go home. You are aware of your tail beating impatiently against the seat beside you. The rhythmic thumping matches up with the second hand.

You detest waiting for him in the bar where he works. You were not a jumpy person by nature, but you doubt anyone from your neighbourhood could sit in The Dive comfortably without constantly checking their vital organs for protruding cutlery. Save, perhaps, Dave. You knew he wandered around this place without a single weapon on him, all cocky stride and boundless confidence. When he eventually shows up, you know he'll probably have his work jacket slung over one shoulder, and the sleeves of his dress shirt pushed (not rolled, as you'd instructed him to do) up to his elbows. He was comfortable, and it made you uncomfortable.

The empty glass on the table in front of you contains the remnants of what was once mango juice. You never drank on weeknights, though working from home didn't often give cause to go out and get sloshed on weekends anyway. You are and always have been the boring friend, the one who'd rather stay home with a book than socialize with people they’d never even met. If it weren't for Dave and his complete inability to drive, you might stay in the flat you shared for days or weeks at a time.

You scan the bar crowd inconspicuously, in between shooting accusatory glares at the clock. The Dive is unsettlingly full of tall people in dark coats: those kinds of people your mother often warned you were "the bad sort". A colossal man with tall, pointed ears sitting by the fireplace has a rifle laid out over his legs, with no attempt to conceal it whatsoever. You reason he must be a Doberman, though you've never seen one in the flesh before. They were often vicious. Your fur bristles just slightly, instinctually. He's got several large chunks missing from his ears, and seems to be blind in one eye. You don't fancy thinking about how he received these injuries. Many of the patrons around him have similar injuries, and you also note that many of them have the same general features: long, grey tails, pointy ears, and black clothes that no doubt hide weapons from view. The whole thing feels as if it has been taken directly from an old detective film, the kind your mother adored.

When Dave comes out of the staff room at the back and approaches your table, you miss him in your subtle analysis of The Dive's crowd, so when he says your name you jump so hard the glass on the table rattles. He rolls his eyes.

"Jesus, Lalonde, would you relax just a little bit?" he says. You glower at him from your hood.

"Not all of us saner people feel at home whilst surrounded by countless future police cases," you snap back quietly. He laughs as you push past him and head for the door, your tail kept firmly down where nobody will see it. You all but gasp for air as you reach the street, but don't pause as you round the corner and hurry to your car. Your brother jogs easily behind you: his legs are far longer than yours. Your scowl deepens.

"I wouldn't ask you to wait inside for me if I didn't think you were perfectly safe," he argues as you pull out of the lot and speed off towards home. He throws his work jacket into the back seat, and you note with a measured degree of irritance that he isn't wearing his seatbelt. "Forgive me," you say, "if I'm inclined to question your grasp of safe areas. Home is a safe area. School is a safe area. The Dive is a bar, Dave, and everyone with half a brain knows that many degrees of illegal shit goes down there." He just scoffs, rolls down the passenger side window, and lights a cigarette.

"As if we'd ever let anything happen to you."  
"Is that the royal "we", or are you now counting yourself among the veritable mafia family that work there?"  
"Don't talk about them that way, Rose. You don't know them."  
"Then enlighten me. Just what is it that keeps you coming back every weekday?"  
"They're-" Dave stops, either thinking or hesitating, you're not sure. He blows smoke out the window.

"...they're good people. Like, actually decent fucking human beings. They look out for eachother, and they look out for me."  
"You've only worked there for a month."  
"Yeah, that's why it's kind of astounding."

You shut your mouth. It's evident that he cares about his coworkers, so you decide not to push it further. Rather than requesting he learn how to drive, as you do most nights on the trip home, you say "Can't one of your new crime-toting friends give you a ride home instead?"

"Yeah, probably," he admits. You wait for him to continue, stealing glances at him every now and then. He just dabs the ashes from his cigarette over the window glass and raises his eyebrows, a pleasant smile on his face. You sigh.

Not five minutes later, you're parking your car on the side of the road in front of your shared apartment. "Rose," he begins, and only the odd tone in his voice makes you pause to listen.

"...would you be interested in a job?"  
"At The Dive?"  
"Yeah."  
"No, Dave."

"You haven't even heard what it is," he says, fixing you with the look that you know means "You're being foolish." It makes you annoyed. As you open your mouth to snap at him, he rushes ahead of you.

"The lounge singer quit last week, and before you go assuming the worst, she got married. Moved to California with her husband. Karkat was talking about looking for a new one today during the break."

You already know what he's going to say.

"I do not want to work at that bar, Dave. I don't have a deathwish that’s nearly large enough for that."

You don't mention that you haven't sung in public for years, of course. You gather up your phone and house keys, and deadpan at him. "Get out of my car."

Your obvious aversion to continuing the conversation doesn't seem to deter Dave, because he continues to bother you about it all night. He sits cross-legged on your couch, his guitar in his lap, and hounds you about it every few minutes.

"Don't you miss singing?" he asks at one point, as you stalk darkly into your room and close your door in reply. The floor (and most other surfaces) is covered in unfinished manuscripts and publisher's notes - the evidence of your profession. You'd taken up published writing three years ago, and while it was only intended as a way to pay the bills, it soon spiralled far beyond your control as demand for your work grew to a colossal scale. Writing under the pseudonym T.T., you'd become the most popular young adult fiction writer in the country.

You sink to the floor slowly, your back pressed to the door and your tea mug in your hands, and stare at the opposite wall. Many framed awards for writing and book sales hang there, mostly out of courtesy rather than pride. Only one doesn't match: it hangs directly above your desk, smaller than the others. A large gold emblem, followed by your name and the words "Chicago Symphony Center".

Of course you missed singing. When you were eighteen, you'd truly believed that you could go anywhere your music would take you. That turned out to be no further than your outstretched hand. Besides, the only person who'd ever believed in you was gone now. There were far more practical things to do with your time, things that would yield actual results and also make many, many people happy.

Yes, this was where you belonged, spinning your fantasy into bound paper, your face hidden behind two letters and your voice silent. There wasn't any need to change, and Dave knew that. He knew you'd moved on.

So why did he feel the need to bring that up again?

You glare down into your tea mug. To hell with him. You weren't going back to The Dive again.

* * *

Outside your sister’s door, you stand, staring at the floor like an idiot. You’ve probably upset her, but it frustrates you that she refuses to even listen to you.

You know Rose misses singing for people: you remember how happy it made her before.

“Fine,” you say quietly, just loud enough for her to hear. You make your way down the hall to your own room, and retrieve the box you have hidden in the bottom of your closet. It’s full of old DVDs, but you’re only seeking one of them - the one in the blank case, resting on the top. Rose could never know that you still own it, much less watch it on occasion.

You slip it into the inside pocket of your work jacket. If Rose was going to insist on playing this game, you’d just have to make it harder for her.

 


	2. Dave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave is a man with a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long: it was sitting in my Docs for about a month and I completely forgot it was a thing.

The next morning, you walk to work.

Rose hadn’t even been awake when you left. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, and though it was mid-June, there was a frosty edge to the air that crept under your jacket.  
Rose had all but become nocturnal anyway: she hated Summer. You do feel bad for her, having all that fur. She’d inherited your grandmother’s Burmilla genes, where you and Dirk had both turned out to be Scottish Folds, just like your father. You wonder idly how your brother is. It’s been a few weeks since you last spoke to him. He moved to New York last year, to pursue his singing career. Your mother often said that singing ran in the family, but you were always more inclined to the guitar. You couldn’t sing like Dirk and Rose could. Not in the way that made people feel shit.

The DVD case in your pocket rattles a little, as if reminding you. You need to convince your boss that Rose is just the singer for The Dive. Though you didn’t own any recordings of her singing lounge music (you attribute this to Rose having never sung lounge music before), you were confident that this one would be sufficient to persuade him.

You clutch your jacket, and your precious DVD, closer to your chest. It has taken you roughly forty minutes to walk to The Dive, and the chill has well and truly settled into your bones. The doors are closed tight, but you know the side entrance will be unlocked just for the employees: the bar didn’t open until 5, after all. It’s pretty much silent outside but once you open the side door you’re met with a rush of warm air, the smell of hot chocolate, and the sound of heavy objects being moved about. Your boss is standing behind the bar, reading loudly from a clipboard in Alternian. Someone else is yelling things back at him from the storage room. He gives you a nod and a small wave as you enter, but doesn’t stop his roll call. Terezi, a short-ish troll you’ve taken a liking to, sticks her head out of the storage room and grins in your general direction. She’s blind, but somehow she always knows precisely where you are. It freaks you out more than a little, but she’s actually pretty fun to talk to.

In the staff area, two more of your troll coworkers are sitting on adjacent couches, chatting idly. Though they both have short, dark hair, that’s where their similarities end. The shorter of the two, a girl called Nepeta, has large ears and a larger tail. Her fur is somewhat unruly, giving her a wild look about her. You don’t really know her all that well, but she flashes a very pointy grin at you as you enter.

The other occupant of the room is at least a whole head taller than Nepeta. You greet her by name.

“Morning, Kanaya.”

The troll in question is the one you spend the most time talking to during your shifts, since the two of you have the same job. Honestly, she’s the best bartender you’ve ever seen.  
Kanaya Maryam, the first person you’d consider your friend at The Dive. Everything about her is so carefully tidy: from her perfectly-styled pixie cut, to her tall, poised ears (pale grey, with dark, leopard-like spots - you recall Karkat saying she’s some super rare exotic breed or something). You’ve never seen anyone, neither troll nor human, with a tail that matches hers in length. When you’d first started work, you’d been terrified of her. Now you can’t imagine staying sane without her.

“Good morning, Dave,” she returns pleasantly, as you dump the contents of your pockets into your locker. You set the DVD case on the table beside Kanaya, who just peers at it.  
“Home video?” she asks.  
“Sort of. A demo of that singer I mentioned yesterday.”  
“Ah. Your sister, correct?”  
“Rose, yeah.”

Nepeta pulls on her work jacket and gets to her feet, her tail swishing about excitedly. “Isn’t she the girl who comes to wait for you every night?” the shorter troll sing-songs. You shrug.  
“She drives me home, against her will.” You crack half a smile for Kanaya, who returns it.

Nepeta skips out of the room abruptly, humming under her breath, and so you collapse into the sofa chair she’d recently vacated. You sit on your tail by accident, and curse loud enough for Karkat to hear back in the bar. He barks out a laugh in the distance. Kanaya just sighs.  
“There’s a birthday party tomorrow night,” she breathes wearily, already rubbing her temples. “Spades Slick, from the Midnight Crew. He is bringing half of downtown with him. We’ve organized temporary entertainment, but I had to call in an old favor to get it. Karkat will not be pleased.”  
You already know he won’t be pleased. Karkat liked the old lounge singer: Aradia had been a personal friend of his. She’d married Nepeta’s best friend, a tall, hulking troll you'd never really spoken to. He’d always been standing off in a corner, sweating profusely and never saying anything.  
You pat Kanaya awkwardly on the shoulder, and grab for your DVD. “Come on,” you tell her.

There is a large TV in the lounge area beside the bar, and Kanaya trails after you silently as you weave around staff members carrying boxes in from the side door. Karkat raises an eyebrow at you as you approach.  
“Got a minute, boss?” you ask. He glances down at his clipboard. For a moment you think he’s going to say no, but then he looks at something over his shoulder and huffs. “Yeah, ok.”  
Karkat sets the list down on the bar, and follows you into the lounge.  
As you walk, you explain your plan. “I found this old video of Rose singing a few years back. It’s the only one I have anymore. I know it’s not exactly Dive music, but…”

You set the disc onto the tray, close it, and hit play. It takes a little while for it to load, but after moment the menu comes up, and you select the first video.  
It’s set in a large music hall. An orchestra is set up on the grand stage, and every seat in the house is full. A smattering of applause starts for the orchestra, and grows into a crescendo for Rose, as she takes her place in the small spotlight in the middle of the stage. She's dressed very simply, in a floor-length black gown. Not even her headband, which she almost never takes off, is in place. You remember her giving it to Dirk to hold just before she went out on stage. Something about maintaining the purity of the song? You don't recall her exact words, but then again, you don't understand the song anyway.  
On the tape, she starts singing after another brief pause. It's a lovely piece, and you remember Rose studying the lyrics for months beforehand, making 100% sure she pronounced everything correctly. It was the way Rose had been then, resolute and passionate. You miss seeing that in your little sister. It's been a while since you've seen her enjoy anything.

Karkat makes a quiet noise of approval. Kanaya simply stares at the screen, a small crease between her brows, as if she's concentrating very hard.

At some point, more and more staff members had drifted towards the lounge, and were now standing around listening, silent. Some were still holding boxes. You're thankful The Dive has such a superb speaker system.  
"You told me yesterday she doesn't sing anymore?" Karkat asks you suddenly, surprising you a bit. His ears are alert and serious atop his head. You search for the right words, fumbling a little.  
"She just....suddenly stopped three years ago. Started writing more, stopped smiling. I guess it had something to do with our brother moving to New York." Karkat processes this information carefully, his eyes darting from side to side as he thinks. Kanaya stares straight ahead until the performance ends. You don't think she blinks the entire time. The rest of the staff have turned to Karkat, who eventually says "Staff meeting. Ten minutes, in here. Go put your shit down."  
The occupants of the room bustle out at once, chattering amongst themselves. Kanaya disappears back to the staff room at once, and you fetch your DVD from the player. Karkat hasn't moved. He's staring at the floor fiercely, still thinking. Plotting, if you know him nearly half as well as you think you do. The tip of his tail twitches just so, back and forth, with his thoughts. You try to wonder if the sudden meeting is good news, but honestly, with the way your boss is silently fuming, you're beginning to doubt it.  
When the members of staff file back into the room, they all pick seats and immediately fall into a hush. You gather this is habit rather than genuine consideration, because not even Terezi is talking. Karkat looks up from the floor suddenly, and begins talking at once.

"Firstly, since we're about to enter the holiday rush, this is as good a time as any to formally introduce our newest bartender to the staff. Everyone, this is Dave Strider." He motions to you stiffly. You're not really sure what to do with your hands, so you stuff them into your pockets and thank the higher powers that nobody can see how your eyes flicker around to every face nervously behind your shades.  
Karkat goes on to introduce you to everyone in the room. Aside from Kanaya, Nepeta, Terezi, and Karkat himself, you finally meet the remaining 6 members of staff.  
Tavros and Vriska you immediately decide to steer clear of. You tell yourself firmly that it has nothing to do with the fact that Vriska is a Russian Blue, and more to do with the fact that she won't stop grinning at you and pinching Tavros. He himself just has the face of an asshole. Next.

Sollux seems to be an alright guy, though he doesn’t talk a whole lot. He's sitting next to a very fluffy Birman called Feferi. Her tail could probably rival Rose's in sheer size. She seems very friendly, waving at you when Karkat introduces her, and even elbowing Sollux to try to get him to do the same. He just nods at you, and you return that.

The two remaining trolls sit on complete opposite sides of the room. Kanaya isn't very fond of either of them: you've heard her talking to Karkat about Eridan more than once, and caught her glaring at Gamzee a few times yourself. A Dobermann and a Shiba Inu, respectively, they don't even look at you when prompted. Gamzee stares vacantly into space, as if high, and Eridan glares at your feet.  
"Nice guys," you comment softly to Kanaya beside you. She presses her lips into a hard line. It occurs to you that she might have some history with them, but you know better than to ask. What you've come to learn about Kanaya is that she's a very private person. If there were things she wanted the whole staff to know, she'd say them herself.

You're pretty sure Kanaya knows you've figured this out, and somehow, you know she's grateful for it. You get the feeling that not everyone who works here is on the same wavelength.

Your boss goes over some inventory shit for a while, which you mostly tune out, but finally he says what you've been waiting for.  
"I've also decided on Aradia's replacement, so nobody go around hiring any more assholes with trumpets. One was enough." A couple of people chatter amongst themselves, and Vriska shoots Kanaya a very pointed glance, which she deflects by suddenly becoming very interested in straightening her sleeves. The meeting ends with no real prompt, and Kanaya once again escapes the room before you can so much as blink. You aren't really sure what to do now. Rose doesn't sing anymore, and you sincerely doubt her brother's angry boss is going to change that anytime soon. Karkat turns to leave, passing right by you as he does.  
"Convince her," he murmers, before resuming his place behind the bar.  
It isn't up for discussion. One way or another, you're going to have to convince Rose to work at The Dive. If you pull this off, you'll have gained Karkat's trust. If you fuck it up, he'll probably skewer you alive and use your head as a ball for rugby. Or feed you to that weird stoner guy, whose name has already slipped from your short-term memory. Grimey? Yeah, probably.  
You can already feel the sigh building in your chest.

The day drags on without you really noticing. You spend hours helping your coworkers bring the massive stock boxes in from a volley of moving trucks that never seem to end, lugging them into either the walk-in fridge, or the storage room. You don't ask what's in them. There are a lot of things you just aren't meant to ask at The Dive.  
Kanaya reappears around an hour before opening time, holding Karkat's clipboard. He is nowhere in sight. You realize you haven't heard him yelling for several hours, and when you prompt Kanaya on this, you learn that she is second-in-command.  
You don't ask if she's referring to The Dive or not. She watches you carefully anyway, as if wondering if you're smart enough to hold your tongue. When you do, she seems satisfied.  
"He actually has the day off today," Kanaya explains, setting the clipboard down to help you set up the tables around the stage. The lush red tablecloths are huge and rather heavy, and it's a much easier task with two people. "He was only supposed to come in to oversee the stock, but as per usual, he did more than his fair share of work." She says this with enough affection to make you wonder, and you chance a question only because you're reasonably certain she'll answer.

"Is he your troll boyfriend thing? Mate sprite or whatever?"

Kanaya pauses, her eyes darting up to where yours are hidden behind your shades. Her ears do not move in the slightest - a better "poker face" than any measure of expression. She smiles wryly. "He is not my matesprit, no. Our relationship is of a strictly pale nature."

Something about what she says amuses her to some degree. It's a little bit unnerving. You feel as if you might have crossed a line somewhere, after all.  
"Shit, sorry. I didn't mean to intrude."  
"It's quite fine, Dave. Humans do not have moirallegiance, correct?"  
"We have something like it, though it's.....less constricting? I mean, last time I checked I wasn't soulbound to my best bro."  
"Hmmm."

When you finish with the tables, Kanaya picks up the clipboard and turns to you. You already know what's coming. The Dive opens in half an hour - time for Uniform Check.  
It's a polite way to phrase it, you think with mild amusement. Sometimes you forget the nature of the place you work at.  
Kanaya looks over your uniform for a moment before she really begins.  
"Do you have your handgun?"  
"I do."  
"When will you use it?"  
"Only when provoked."  
"Our policy?"  
"Ettiquete in every situation."

Kanaya crosses off your name on the checklist, "Very good. Go and put your jacket on, please. You're working the bar with me tonight." She goes off to continue her rounds. The handgun in question is in a holster across your chest, held on by leather straps around your ribs and shoulder. You still weren't completely comfortable with carrying a firearm, but at least you hadn't let Rose see it yet. You're certain it would only prompt her to further despise The Dive.  
To your knowledge, every employee at the lounge was required to carry a firearm at all times - even tiny Nepeta never goes anywhere without hers - but you'd never seen Kanaya wearing one. It hadn't struck you as odd before. It's probably one of those Things You Shouldn't Ask.  
As you return to the staff area to fetch your jacket, the soft little chime over the PA that signals opening hours rings out. You're reaching for your jacket when an idea hits you. You pick up your phone with your free hand, and type out what is probably the longest text of your life.

You can only hope she reads it all the way through before deleting it.


	3. Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Azul.

The morning brings a harsh and hot beam of light directly into your face, leaping joyfully through the large gap you left in your curtains and inviting the dust motes to dance in slow spirals across your cluttered desk. When you sit up, you can already tell you've slept far later than you wanted to. Your laptop is still open at the foot of your bed, though it has long since gone into sleep mode. A small red light blinks at you, quietly demanding your attention as the last of its battery life drains away. You have to strain yourself to do it, leaning precariously out of bed, but you fumble for the power cord and plug it in before discarding it carefully on the carpet to charge. You'd stayed up until the wee hours of the morning working on your latest novel - a tale of forbidden romance, of course, carefully veiled in mystery and deceit. You weren't one to dabble in written comedy. You liken this to quite possibly being the least humorous person in your city.  
There is white fur plastered to your bedsheets and the underside of your blanket when you rise, and you swear between your teeth. Summer is well on its way, and you're beginning to shed. Even with the loss of your thick winter fur, the heat is almost unbearable. At often times you consider going to get your fur trimmed, but pride (and perhaps some vanity) prevents you from ever actually going through with it. You take good care of your fur, and it shows. In contrast, you've seen how easily long fur becomes matted and snarled. A small wave of horror rolls through you.  
As you sit on the bathroom stool, combing shampoo through your silky-wet tail, you write lines in your head. You often do this when you are trying not to think about something else. Ever-silent, the secretary merely stared into the middle-distance. Claire Duvont knew better than to interrupt her in moments like this. Instead, she focused on how the other woman's hands formed a tidy nest on her lap, one amber lock of her hair curling perfectly around her right temple and oh, fuck, you have to go and get Dave from work tonight.  
The shower suddenly feels ice-cold, so you turn it up as hot as it will go without scalding and stand under it. Water immediately runs off your ears and into your face. You flatten them against your head, and curse Dave with the worst words you know. You think you hear the old lady in the apartment above you gasp. Somewhere, in a gloomy bar in downtown Chicago, Dave sneezes and bangs his head against a wall. At least, this is what you want to happen. Reality is you glaring, hunched, at the white tilesl.  
All things considered, at least you don't need to pick Dave up for another 7 hours. You toy with the idea of working on your novel as you blow-dry your hair, but can't summon the willpower. Instead, you mull about the house and waste time away in front of the television. There's nothing on but infomercials and soap operas. You're halfway through Audrey's chilling recount of her brother's murder when, quite suddenly, your fur stands on end and a tremor shoots down your spine. A split second later, thunder rends the air in two, and the quiet, distant shhhhhh of rain leaks in through the ajar window. Though the humidity seems to reach sauna levels, you throw the living room window open all the way to dispel the lingering summer burn as the downpour reaches your apartment.  
Humidity you can handle. Nobody notices your frizzy hair when your fur is so fluffy. But heat has a way of pressing down on your skin: heat feels like a blanket you can't quite be rid of. Though you hate getting your fur wet, you adore the rain. You've yet to meet another person who so much as tolerates it, while you revel in it. Rain smells like life. On stormy nights you like to keep your window open. It sounds like the sky hushing you to sleep, and you don't feel as lonely.

Those are the only nights you can sleep without the nightmares.

You stand at the living room window for a long time, feeling the heat seep from your skin, bringing blissful cool to your sunburns - you'd been sitting on the balcony for far too long yesterday - and immediately decide to go out. You will admit to feeling a little bit bad about cursing Dave earlier, and you know he'd be walking home from work just fine if The Dive wasn't in that particular suburb. You don't actually mind driving him home. Somewhere, deep in your subconscious but too prideful to show its face, you're aware that the only reason Dave pesters you so about picking him up is because he wants you to leave the house. You've heard his phone calls to your brother in New York, late at night when he thinks you're asleep - "She never leaves, hardly speaks to me. I'm fucking scared, Dirk. This is exactly what happened to Roxy."  
You aren't angry that he has these conversations about you, yet without you. Dave would never bring up your sister to your face. You turn your head into your pillow, pretend not to hear him in the hallway, pretend your mattress can swallow you up just as tightly as you squeeze your eyes shut. You hate that you can see her on the back of your eyelids, amidst the flashes of red and the faint stars. Dave used to beg you to call Dirk after he moved. He stopped asking when you dumped all your photos of him in a shoebox in the attic.

You pull on your rainboots and a thick wool poncho, wrestle your umbrella from the rack by the door, and pocket your wallet. You'll cook for Dave tonight, his favourite, if the store has everything you need (it's hard to get your hands on good mozzarella within reasonable walking distance) and hope he's not too mad at you for ignoring him last night. You often cross the line with Dave. In your defense, it was drawn in the sand with the toe of a sneaker, and isn't often visible, because having a feelings jam with your brother isn't something you can really picture happening, ever. Not cool enough for Dave, who wears his shades at night and can't drink tea unless he's let it go stone cold first. He is only ever serious on rare occasion, and otherwise flings terrible jokes every which way under the guises of "irony" and "you wouldn't understand, Lalonde".

The rain isn't very heavy yet, but you unfold your umbrella anyway, and half-jog down the road towards the store. The only soul in sight is a very soggy business man, his briefcase clutched over his head as he runs for a taxi. He squints at you as he passes, as if you're about to chance stealing his ride from under his nose. You very pointedly stare straight ahead as he stomps in a puddle and sloshes water all over your legs.  
The two blocks to the supermarket feels like a marathon to somebody who has barely left the house for 3 months, and by the time you reach it, you're half-considering turning around and going home when you smack into someone coming out the automatic shop door. You drop your umbrella, they nearly drop a paper bag full of fruit, and as you feel yourself pitching over sideways, a strong, sure arm loops around your back and catches you almost instantly. A tiny exhale is all the stranger offers before you gather your bearings and think to look up at your savior.

Your first thought is that you're looking at a troll. Your second is that it is a very beautiful troll.  
Short black hair curls under her eyes and feathers outward at her neck. She is tall, surprisingly so - though you're currently hanging over the sidewalk at a 70 degree angle, you know she has an entire head on you. Her skin is grey, though paler than any other of her kind you've seen, and the coal-blacks of her pupils show warm flecks of jade green. You're close enough to see the freckles that dust the bridge of her nose.  
“Oh,” you say stupidly, and she gives you a lopsided grin complete with pointy fangs that instantly makes your heart do cartwheels down the street. Were you always this verbally-challenged? Your mouth seems intent on further embarrassing you, because the next thing that comes out of it is yet another “oh”.  
The person sets you on your feet with almost no effort, and seems to retrieve your umbrella from thin air. “Yours, I believe?” she says, and you accept it with a slightly-trembling hand. You see that you were right about her height, but hadn’t been in a position to notice her ears. They are large, and very tall. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone, troll nor human, with ears like that - you try to make it less obvious that you’re staring, and direct your attention back to her face. She’s watching you patiently, an amused smirk still playing about the edge of her mouth. Shit. You must’ve been staring for longer than you thought.  
“Are you alright?” she asks you, and since you don’t trust yourself not to say something foolish, you simply nod. She shifts her grocery bag to her other hip, and tilts her head just slightly to the side, examining your face in turn. Something about this sets you on edge, and you clutch the handle of your umbrella tightly. “Be careful. It’s fairly slippery here,” the lady says eventually, and walks off with a teasing smile and her shopping cradled to her chest. You turn your head just in time to see a grey, leopard-spotted tail vanishing around the corner.

By the time your brain catches up with your body, you’re exiting the store and are halfway down the road. Lost completely in a sharp grin and how dumb you sounded, wondering idly if she shops there often, berating yourself for not asking, you don’t notice until you’re unpacking your groceries in your kitchen that you forgot the cheese.

Dave is waiting for you outside The Dive that night, to your great pleasure, so you don’t have to go inside. He’s overjoyed that you cooked his favourite kind of pasta, and either doesn’t notice the missing mozzarella, or doesn’t comment. He’s far too busy stuffing his face, and you’re allowed to escape to your room without much hassle. You’ve never been so inspired to write.


	4. Kanaya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we get to hear from Kanaya!

The party starts as well as you could really hope it to. Spades Slick is especially nasty when sober, and by the time he shoulders his way into The Dive, his party guests have already been choking the bar for half an hour. Regular patrons have been turned away tonight, so every head in the house is a guaranteed mobster. Understandably, you spot Nepeta shaking just-slightly more than once as she serves tables, though thankfully she doesn't spill anything.   
The bar shift is particularly hectic. Gangsters were not known for being patient, and were liable to start brawls if their neighbor got their order before they did, so order was crucial. Dave, to his credit, doesn't make a single mistake all night. He doesn't push his sleeves to his elbows, he doesn't fling the hand towel over his shoulder. His uniform stays neat and tidy. It's his first rush bar shift, and you will admit to being impressed with his performance. He'd only been hired a month ago.

The number of toasts Spades Slick raises is almost precisely matched by the number of drinks he knocks back. On the small stage in the lounge, the singer you brought in is droning out a steady stream of music that all sounds the same. You suppose you could have done far worse – she can surely sing, and she's not bad to look at. The mobsters around the stage are far too drunk to be listening to her properly, anyway. In a rare lull in bar activity, you lean your hands on the counter in front of you and watch her curiously. Of course, you were still intending to kill her, no matter how talented or pretty she had turned out to be. It was the rule. Your old friend had sent her to you knowing she was expendable. It was quite a weighty favor, but he owed you much more and he knew it. This was the easy way out, a moment of leniency on your part. He was grateful. What was one singer's life towards clearing a debt to Kanaya Maryam?  
You did not work for money, not in your actual business, anyway – the business conducted behind the heavy wooden doors of the staff area. Your preferred payment method was favors: it was in your interest to have many important people in your debt.   
In your peripheral vision, you see Dave lean his elbows on the polished bar wood, see the light reflect off the face of his wristwatch. His shift would be over in an hour. “Does he do this every year?” the blond man says to you, also watching the singer behind his dark glasses. In front of the stage, several men have gotten out of their seats to dance drunkenly to much faster music in their own heads. You nod, knowing he will see it.  
“Is it always this.....rowdy?” He strains a little to be heard over the din.  
“Usually.”  
“Wow, I suddenly feel really bad for you.”  
“Don't. He pays in excess of $20,000 for these parties.”  
Dave whistles, a long, drawn-out sound. “Guy must be fond of the venue.”  
“It is the only venue willing to cater to his kind of guests.”  
You turn your head just slightly in his direction, so he can see the ghost of a smile you offer him. He nods. This is as close to camaraderie the two of you will ever get while on shift.   
You'll likely never say it out loud, but you enjoy having him at the bar with you. It's only partly because he's capable – there are other people on staff who can work the bar – but it's mostly the fact that he has incredible tact. He always seems to know when not to talk, when it's okay to ask questions, what to say. You've never met a human who was quite so well-versed in people. His company cheers you up, makes you believe The Dive could trust him in time. Your first impression of him wasn't great; you like to hope it wasn't because of his floppy ears and slightly-unkempt hair, because that'd be terribly judgmental, so you tell yourself it was because of his glasses. As it turned out, he had a licence to wear them due to his over-sensitive eyes. “Plus,” he'd whispered you conspiratorially, “they make the ladies think I'm real mysterious and cool.”  
You didn't believe that for a second. Neither did he.  
A drunk patron stumbles up to the opposite end of the bar and slurs something at Dave, and he's off to serve the man before you can blink. You are left alone on your side; most everyone else is now crowding around Spades Slick as he makes yet another birthday toast and nearly topples into a large cake on the table in front of him. So distracted by the possibility of having to clean icing out of the hardwood, you don't notice the door being opened until you hear it swing shut. Standing in the entrance way is a rather-horrified-looking blonde girl, whom you instantly feel is not one of Spades Slick's guests.  
You're about to call out to her to let her know about the party when you recognize her. She is the girl from the video Dave brought, the girl you ran into outside a supermarket – the girl who could only be Rose. You have never seen her in The Dive without a hood over her face. Tonight she is wearing a long black dress with nary a head covering in sight. It is a lovely change. Halfway between the shadows of the landing and the warm gold light of the bar, her ears and hair seem to glow in their paleness. She looks scared, entirely out of place. Radiant. Utterly defenseless. You waste another heartbeat applying some more adjectives to her before you beckon her towards you with what you hope is a reassuring hand. From the look she gives you, one would think you'd waved a live scorpion at her, but she manages to smother it under a cool façade as she sways her way to the bar.  
“Dave's sister, I presume?” You try to keep the smug edge out of your voice, but you notice the way her shoulders curve just slightly forward, betraying her confidence. She hoists herself smoothly onto a bar stool, and you see a large white tail swing out to keep her balanced. You make a note of it, but don't stare. You're sure she gets enough of that already.  
Rose is looking resolutely out at the crowd, determined to ignore you, for the most part. “I am,” she says to nobody in particular, looking back over her shoulder.  
You try again. “I must admit, it is nice to see you firmly vertical for a change.”  
It works. Her head turns towards you, a crease between her eyebrows, but the second she sees your face they climb towards her hairline. It's an expression you have now seen her wear twice. You smile, and a lovely, faint pink spreads daintily across the bridge of her nose. She once again flounders silently, her mouth half open, before she forces out “Thank you for that time. I....didn't know you worked here.”  
“Most don't.” You are very much amused by this point. She really is quite striking, with her pale skin and dark eyes. “What brought about the change of heart and attire? It is a rare occurrence indeed to find you out of the shadows.”

Rose clears her throat, and the end of her tail flicks outward. “It's rather rude to interrogate a girl before you've been properly introduced,” she states coyly, regaining her composure. She doesn't smile, but you can feel the promise of one. You decide to play along.  
“Forgive me, miss,” you wheedle, “for my rather rude and clumsy breach of etiquette. My name is Kanaya. May I get you something to drink?” Bending at the waist, you fold one gloved hand across your stomach in a regal bow. Rose hums in approval. “You may. I'll have an Amulette, if you know how to make one.”  
You decide not to tell her that the Amulette is your personal creation, and somewhat of a house speciality.  
She watches you carefully as you prepare her drink, never commenting, her chin resting in one hand. The layers are perfect, the drink blending from a pale lime to a rich forest green, the glass perfectly chilled without a drop of condensation. When you set the dainty glass on the bar before her, she accepts it without praise. “Very well. Continue,” she prompts you with a wave of her free hand. This time, you jump right to the point.  
“What is a lady such as yourself doing in this particular establishment on this particular night?” She takes a dainty sip of her drink, and you stare as her upper lip breaks the surface. You feel silly for it. She doesn't seem to notice, though, and she takes her time compiling an answer for you. The result is unsatisfactory. “I am here to escort my brother home, as I always do. Surely you know that.”

As if on queue, Dave returns from the other side of the bar at that precise moment. “Kanaya, I swear, that man ordered at least five dry Martinis and he insisted I make them one by- oh, hey, Rose. You came.” Rose didn't look up from her drink, but raised her eyebrows a little in greeting. Dave seemed stumped. “Like, you actually came came. To the bar. In nice clothes. I genuinely didn't think you would.” You look to Dave for some kind of hint, but he shrugs at you, equally as mystified.  
“I do enjoy an evening out, on occasion,” Rose interjected. You think she sounds a little irritated, but it doesn't show on her face. “Granted, I do tend to pick slightly.....safer venues, but who am I to say no when my dear brother comes begging?”  
And there it is, the smirk you felt coming. As Dave's neck flushes, the corners of Rose's black-painted lips quirk upward, and he's spluttering at her as you lean back and laugh silently.  
“It was hardly begging, Lalonde.”  
“Would you like me to read your text aloud to our companion here?”  
“No, that won't be fucking necessary, thank you, oh my god.”  
Dave high-tails it down the bar and around the corner, and now Rose is laughing. She seems to have forgotten her nerves, as her tail curls jovially behind her, held aloft for the first time you've ever seen. “In truth,” she tells you, “he asked me to come here to personally experience your bar's unique hospitality before I decide for certain that I don't want to work here.”  
So Dave did offer her the position. Rose takes another sip of her drink while you mull this over. Your hands find the bar towel and wipe it down on auto-pilot, the drunk crowd screaming in assent – someone's located the television, and turned on a baseball game. You hear Karkat swear from the storeroom.   
Suddenly, a sentence comes to the front of your mind before you can stop it. “I heard you sing.”  
Rose pauses, the glass halfway to her mouth, and properly glares at you.  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“Your brother brought a video of one of your concerts. It was lovely.”  
You know now that you've said something troublesome, and very possibly gotten Dave into hot water. Rose's jaw works for a moment, her ears twitching on her head. She looks very much like she wants to leave, but she simply takes a huge gulp of her Amulette. “I wasn't aware he had any videos of me singing.”  
You're a little taken aback by her sudden change in mood. “He did not mean any harm by it,” you begin, but Rose holds up one hand to silence you. “It doesn't matter.” Her tone has become kinder, but you suspect it's forced. Her ears haven't stopped twitching, standing bolt-upright on her head. She looks down into her glass, to the bar behind you, out across the lounge – anywhere but you.  
“Don't you already have a singer?” She nods her head towards the stage. You don't follow her eyes.  
“She is temporary, only for tonight.”  
“Why? She's perfectly capable.”  
You sigh. “The boss wants you.”  
Rose drains the last of her drink, nudging the glass across the bar towards you. You snatch it up faster than you intended to, and Rose's head jerks back a little. “You saw the video, yes?” she says to you, meeting your eyes fiercely this time. You nod stiffly. “Then,” Rose continues, “you are aware of the fact that I am a Gaelic singer, and have never sung music fit for an establishment like this in my life.” You nod again. “The boss saw it too. He's convinced he wants you. Now, if the decision were up to me, I'd find a singer elsewhere-” you pause to see that Rose is adequately taken aback by this, “-but unfortunately, he is rather stubborn and resolute in his decisions. He is offering you a permanent job here, though he does not know you in the slightest. It is very unusual to take an outsider into the....family, for lack of better word. Your brother was one exception. Two is astounding.”  
“You're telling me to take the job,” Rose says carefully, examining you from under her lashes.  
“No,” you sigh, as you finish cleaning the glass, “I'm telling you to seriously consider it. I do not know if you noticed, but this is a fairly high-end lounge. It's a good opportunity for a singer.” The pretty blonde chews delicately on her lower lip.  
“I don't sing anymore.”  
She sits in silence for another moment, before she's up and heading for the door.   
“It was nice to meet you, Kanaya.” Her tail almost drags along the ground, brushing the backs of her ankles. You watch her go. There is nothing else to be done.

A smattering of drunken applause interrupts your staring match with the closed door – the lounge singer is done for the night, and people are streaming out the door to move on to other clubs. It's later than you thought. You pack up the bar as Dave finally returns from the staff area. “How'd it go?” he asks cheerfully. You roll your eyes at him, and he makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “Well, she never was easy to convince. Give her time. She's seen The Dive now. Plus,” he raises an index finger for emphasis, “she knows you work here now.”  
An odd look is all you can think to give him as you neatly fold your bar towel and set it aside. Dave wiggles his eyebrows. “Rose never talks to strangers,” the taller blond says simply. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows (you wrinkle your nose with distaste), fetches his keys and phone from the locker room, and leaves after the last patron with more eyebrow wiggles sent your way. You are about to leave yourself when the lounge singer approaches you.  
She's a slender thing, with straight black hair that falls around her shoulders in a shiny curtain, tall, slender ears, and pretty hazel eyes. Idly you wonder if she got a boob job or not. Probably. She smells far too much like perfume for your liking.  
“Kanaya,” she begins in a silky voice, “I don't suppose you have some free time after work?”  
You smile at her, though you know your eyes are hard. This particular client didn't just send you any old lounge singer; he picked her specifically, trying to appease you. Hm. Either way, it made your job much easier. “Actually,” you purr back to her, “I do.” Colour rushes to her cheeks, paints her skin a lovely red that only reminds you of Rose. Irritation fuels you now, and you lead the singer by the hand towards the rear entrance. You pass Karkat on the way, who offers a strangely-cheerful farewell to her as you go.

She is near-giddy by the time you get outside. “I didn't think you'd even noticed me,” she gushes, “I mean, you spent the whole night talking to the Persian girl.” You get a few steps into the shadows before you round on her and slam her bodily into the wall. She's excited for all of a single second before you sink your teeth into her neck.

The scream that was building in her throat comes out as a raspy choke, her thrashing hands feel like caresses on your skin. She is too frail, too weak. She smells far too much like her cheap perfume. Her blood runs along your tongue and down your throat, blazing a trail through your body. She is spent before you are, her arms falling limply to her sides. Pulling off her neck, you let her prone form slump to the concrete, taking huge, gulping breaths of the night air. Nothing is cool enough. Your skin burns, and gleams brightly off the singer's pale face. You didn't even learn her name.   
Karkat calls out to you suddenly from the back door. “I never get tired of watching you do that.”  
You must be an awful sight, blood down the front of your expensive uniform. You swear under your breath – you'd forgotten to change first. Hastily, you wipe your chin with the back of your sleeve. The coat's already ruined, anyway.  
“That's vaguely concerning,” you tell him as he approaches you. “If I didn't know you better, I might say you have some fairly odd fetishes.” He swipes his thumb along your cheek, collecting a streak of blood, and the sticks the digit into his own mouth. You poke your tongue out at him childishly.  
“Can't you eat without making a mess by now, Kanaya?”  
“Forgive my occasional desire to be messy. I don't often play with my food.”  
“You're also not want to share it, I noticed.” He peers down at the corpse critically. “Kind of smelly, isn't she?”  
You snort. “Horrible cheap perfume. It got up my nose.”  
The two of you make quick business cleaning the general area up - you move her body indoors, to be disposed of in the usual manner. You wash your face and change out of your ruined uniform. Karkat doesn't seem to mind.  
“I heard you spoke to Dave's sister.”  
“Somewhat, yes. I'm not entirely sure how it went.”  
He runs a hand through his already-messy hair, and gives you an awkward sort of half-hug-half-pat. “Honestly, thank you for trying. God knows anyone that closely related to Strider must be a pain in the ass.” You laugh. “She was interesting, actually. They are not that similar.” Karkat just shrugs.

“Give it time,” he grunts. “She'll work here eventually.”  
And you nod, because you understand what he means. If Karkat wants something, he generally gets it – one way or the other.

You hang your bloody uniform in the cloak room and lock it behind you as you leave. Vriska will organize its cleaning.  
She is an expert at getting blood out of clothing. She's a messier eater than you on your worst days.


End file.
